Shakespeare in Tortall
by Dark Rose of Heaven
Summary: An arc inspired by Shakespeare's works. When Dom sleeps with another woman, betraying Kel's love, she loses control and the King assigns her bandit duty at fief Cavall to cool off; what follows is an education in dogs, horses, and falling in love again.
1. Hell Hath No Fury

Technically it wasn't Shakespeare who coined "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned," but since it inspired the rest of the Shakespearean Arc, I'm keeping the title :). Firstly inspired by Carrie Underwood's _Before He Cheats_. First in a series of one-shots, KW of course!

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><p><strong>Hell Hath No Fury<strong>

_I dug my key into the side of his pretty little souped-up four-wheel drive,_

_Carved my name into his leather seats._

_I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights,_

_Smashed a hole in all four tires._

_Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats. -_Carrie Underwood, _Before He Cheats_

_Heav'n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn'd,_  
><em> Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.<em> -William Congreve, _The Mourning Bride_

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><p>The leather made satisfying <em>snick<em>ing sounds as her knife cut through it smoothly. Kel lifted the neatly-cut ends to her face and frowned.

"Too neat."

Flipping the belt knife she held so that the blade was at an angle, she began to shave the ruined reins until they were little more than thin pieces of leather, the shavings scattered all around her feet. She removed the bit and tossed it into a spare barrel of rainwater just outside the tack room. The lamp she had lit, the only source of light in the dark room, flickered as she passed to approach the saddle she sought. She scanned the names on the beaten plates, squinting in the dimness until she found the one she was looking for.

_Sgt. Domitan of Masbolle_

Lips curving in a humorless smile, Kel heaved the saddle – cinch laid over top – and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor. With her knife and a bottle of ink she had tucked in her belt pouch, she went to work. The black stains that dripped down the soft brown leather, smearing the blue-white trim that denoted his rank in the Own, fed the flame that burned steadily inside her, made her feel partly whole again.

She wasn't sure how long she was there, mutilating Dom's tack and scattering the remains from one end of the tack room to the other, but by the time she'd satisfied her need for revenge, her arms and shoulders were stiff with exertion and a faint glow under the door told her dawn was coming. Packing up her tool kit, she got out her thinner dirk and pried Dom's nameplate off the wall. In its place, she carved the symbol for adulterer. It didn't have any of the magic associated with the mage-stamps on the foreheads of true criminals, but it felt right to expose him for what he was to his fellows.

Kel stood back, surveying her work with a crooked grin that had nothing to do with happiness and everything to do with vengeance. She was about to leave, blowing out the lantern flame behind her, when the door creaked open and a tall, lanky figure stood in the frame, blocking the growing daylight with broad shoulders.

"Hello, Wyldon," she said neutrally. At this point, the anger had left her, leaving her tired and empty; all she wanted was to go to bed.

He walked slowly into the room, dark eyes roving over the damage expressionlessly. Then, sighing, he approached her and laid a large hand on her shoulder.

"Remind me never to make you angry."

This time her smile was more genuine, though her throat felt raw and tight. She swallowed, trying to move the lump lodged there, but it refused to budge; with some alarm, she felt the tell-tale prickle of tears in her eyelids. Not wanting her old district commander to see her crying, Kel turned away, unable to speak.

To her surprise, however, his hand remained on her shoulder, sliding down as both arms snaked around her from behind to pull her close to his chest. She managed one ragged breath before the tears hit full force, and she buried her face in her hands, shaking, as he held her tight.

She wasn't sure how long she cried, but finally the sobs that wracked her body stilled, and she sagged limply against Wyldon's sturdy form. It felt so good to lean against another human being, one who she trusted so completely. Gradually his hold on her loosened, and he moved his hands up and down her arms soothingly. She fished a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her face, willing the puffy redness to disappear. _No such luck_, she thought ruefully, and turned to face him.

"Thank you."

His mouth pressed into a thin line, though his eyes were tender. "You are most welcome, Keladry. And rest assured, I saw nothing of this." His gesture took in the entire room, the destruction becoming more evident in the growing dawn light.

She sighed, looking at the ground. "I know it was childish, but I just… I couldn't handle it. I thought he loved me." She bit her lip to stop the flow of words that threatened to spill out.

"I believe he did, at one time. But not all men are as honorable as they should be, and others will always suffer for it."

Wyldon didn't try to comfort her any further with words, but let her stand quietly and compose herself. He knew she was more herself when she looked up, eyes bright with curiosity, and asked, "Why are you in the Own's stables?"

One side of his mouth turned up, and he beckoned her out into the hallway, closing the tack room door solidly behind him. In the watery daylight, she could see that his rough linen shirt and canvas breeches were somewhat bloodstained, and sprinkled liberally with bits of hay. "One of Raoul's breeding mares was birthing, and he wasn't available. She was bred with one of my own studs, so I have a particular interest in the foal. Would you care to see?"

Kel felt her heart lighten, and nodded eagerly. "Yes, please."

"Come, then." He led the way down the open lane, horses still asleep in their stalls to either side. At the very end, toward the back of the building, was where the King's Own kept their breeding mares. Although they did not traditionally keep stallions, both the Crown and fief Cavall supplied powerful, swift-footed studs – often of Bazhir descent – to provide the Own with their mounts. It was here that Wyldon led Kel, and she looked around with interest, having rarely been there. The stalls were more spacious, and more private; through Daine, the mares had conveyed their desire for more sequestered places to have their young.

The particular mare who had recently given birth was a beautiful chestnut, with delicate Bazhir lines and white socks echoing a white star splayed directly in the center of her forehead. Her peaceful expression clearly said the whole affair was old hat. The foal, a near-black colt with red undertones in his still-damp coat, suckled busily, slight spread-eagled on long, slender legs. His build suggested the stocky, sturdy frame of a warhorse, though he'd kept his mother's elegant face.

"He's beautiful," Kel whispered, standing at a polite distance while Wyldon closed the stable door behind them.

"Yes, he is. Takes after his father," he said, sounding as proud as if the colt were his own son. "May we take a closer look?" he inquired of the mare, speaking with the air of a courtier to a noblewoman. At her acceding whicker, he approached to run experienced, weathered hands over the colt's haunches. The newborn snorted at the contact, hindquarters twitching, and pulled back from his mother's teat. The reproach in his liquid brown eyes was nearly palpable, and Kel stifled a delighted laugh behind her hand.

"Does he have a name, yet?" she asked, coming forward to extend a hand. The colt sniffed it, and promptly sneezed, nearly falling over; but Wyldon's steady hands on its flanks kept it from pitching face-first into the straw.

"Not yet. Perhaps you would like to do the honors?"

Chewing her lip, Kel knelt before the newborn and regarded his thin, solemn face, the tiny muzzle still smeared with his mother's milk. It would a shame to geld him, she thought. There was such spirit and intelligence in those eyes, looking back at her like they belonged to an old, whiskery philosopher.

"I rather like Socrates," she admitted at last, startling a laugh from him. "What?"

Wyldon shook his head, feeling the colt's legs carefully. "It's just not a very noble name. Belonged to an old philosopher, didn't it?"

"Yes. Sir Myles is quite fond of his work." Kel tickled the colt's bristly chin, grinning. "Yes, Socrates it shall be."

"Good. He's yours."

Kel's mouth dropped open, and she yanked her hand away as if it had been burned. "_What?_"

This time Wyldon kept his amusement carefully tucked behind a serious face, though she could see the laughter in his eyes. "You never really had the chance to train and rear a horse from foal to adult. You have a very special bond with Peachblossom, but Raoul decided you ought to have a better riding-horse, especially if you take charge of Group Askew."

"How did you know about that?" she demanded, forgetting for an instant that she was his subordinate.

Wyldon raised an eyebrow. "Because Evin Larse offered the position to me first, and I suggested you instead."

"Oh, but sir, you'd make an excellent knight-captain, and Askew is so well-suited to you –"

"That's quite enough, Keladry," he interrupted, forestalling her with a dry smile. "I've already decided. My fief needs me more than the realm does, especially with harvest coming up and no one there to oversee things. Perhaps in the future I'll take a more active role as a knight, but for now I… need a break."

She was reminded forcibly of the death of his wife over the past winter to a particularly savage strain of fever, and trained her eyes back on the horse. The sight of his serious little face reminded her of their original conversation.

"So it was Raoul's idea, that I have this little boy."

"Yes." His reply was too quick, and he colored slightly at her disbelieving glance. "I did suggest it, but he was quick to agree."

"I appreciate the sentiment. But I can't train Socrates – _don't laugh_ – and command Group Askew at the same time," Kel reminded him. "Besides, I don't even know where to begin. I've never trained a horse in my life."

"That is true enough," he conceded, finishing his examination thoughtfully. With another twitch of his brush-like tail, Socrates returned to his feed, and Wyldon levered himself back to his feet. "Askew – and Larse – are not desperate for a commander at the moment. Perhaps if you remain in Corus for the time being, I can assist you."

She regarded his face closely. It was so familiar to her, now, after four years of reporting to him, and another year of close friendship as they served the realm in and around Corus. Sometimes she thought he understood her better than Neal did. And Goddess knew she needed his reliability right now. His stone. The unpredictability of her own anger frightened her, and his steadfastness was a balm on her weary soul.

"I'd like that," Kel said finally, managing a smile. She squeezed his hand with her own, briefly, and looked down at her new colt. "Thank you."

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><p>Please review, I'd like to know what you think! I'm hoping no one's getting tired of KW, because needs more KW love and I'm here to supply it! :D<p> 


	2. The Better Part of Valor

This one really is inspired by Shakespeare! I won't necessarily follow the theme of the work I pull the quote from, but use the quote as a prompt to take the story in my own direction. I have a long list of quotes to use, but if you have any in mind, feel free to send them to me! I don't read enough Shakespeare, so my knowledge is sadly lacking :). Enjoy, and feel free to review if you like it, hate it, or love it. :)

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><p><strong>The Better Part of Valor<strong>

'_The better part of valor is discretion.' –_Henry IV Part One

"I am capable of carrying out my duties," Kel bit out, refusing to add the customary honorific. She was too angry.

The King folded his hands on his desk and leaned forward intently, trying to capture her with his intense blue eyes. Unfortunately for him she had spent the past thirteen years of her life resisting his infamous charm, and merely stared back coldly as he tried to reason with her. "Keladry, I am not trying to shelter or placate you. I will be blunt, since I know that is what you prefer. We do not believe you are fit for active duty at present." His voice was firmer, and the royal 'we' told her he was deadly serious. "You have always proven yourself as a steady, reliable asset to Our ranks of knights, and your work in the war was exemplary. However, this recent… outburst… has rankled more than one conservative heart. We believe this extended leave will allow you time to heal, and time to reevaluate what you want out of your knighthood." He tapped a paper meaningfully. "Commanding Askew, when the times comes, would be an excellent way to groom you for a potentially high position later on."

"Are you trying to bribe me, Your Majesty?" she asked, feeling beaten. He had all but dangled the possibility of Commanding the Queen's Riders in front of her face, and she would be lying if she said it didn't tempt her.

A brief smile flashed across Jonathan's handsome face, and this time it was genuine instead of one crafted to entice. "Perhaps. Regardless, this is our wish – mine, and Lord Raoul's. He wasn't happy with the state of his tack room, you know."

"I know." Kel resisted the urge to scuff the floor with her foot like a naught child. Too many visits to Lord Wyldon's office as a page had ingrained in her the impulse to stand perfectly still and erect before a superior.

"Very well." Jonathan sat back, displaying an unexpected indolence in his posture. "Wyldon has indicated that he intends to help you train your new horse – Socrates, isn't it?"

Kel fought the smile that twitched the corners of her mouth. "Yes, Your Majesty."

The King regarded her closely, and she could practically hear the wheels turning in his mind. What she wasn't as sure of was the unfamiliar gleam in his eyes. Was he _plotting_ something? How… unkingly.

"I believe he is returning to his fief to help with the harvest in a few weeks," Jonathan went on. "The absence of his wife will make his duties particularly strenuous."

Kel shrugged, hiding her bewilderment behind her Yamani Mask. "I wouldn't know, sir. I'm unfamiliar with fief Cavall."

He was stroking his neatly-trimmed beard now. If she'd thought to ask Raoul, her old knight-master would have warned her that it was a very bad sign. Jonathan did the same thing when considering threatening his friend with ball duty.

"He has informed me that the occasional bandit group has been making things difficult for his steward." The gleam was more evident now, and his voice more certain. "I cannot afford him soldiers, and I believe his own are sadly depleted. Perhaps it would be prudent to send someone accustomed to training and commanding civilians in their own defense." His hand came down on the desktop with a smack as he made his decision. "Very well, Lady Knight. I am revoking your leave. Your next assignment will be to travel to fief Cavall with Lord Wyldon, and – under his direction, of course – oversee the cleaning-out of bandits while he concentrates on the harvest. This will get you away from the capital and the gossips, and allow you to train your horse under his watchful eye. It will also give you something to do besides twiddling your thumbs, and help _me_ by ridding the realm of wrongdoers." His smile was almost boyish. "Thank you, Lady Knight Keladry. You are dismissed. I will send you formal orders within the week."

Mind still reeling from his rapid delivery, Kel bowed and left the king's office. Had she stayed a moment to inspect him, she would have seen the satisfied smirk on Jonathan's face, and the way he ran his hands delightedly along the edge of his desk. Subtle signs, but signs nonetheless. Of course, Kel did not stay, but closed the door firmly behind her, leaving the King to his discreet display of glee. After all, Jonathan was nothing if not discreet.

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><p><em>Jon is such a matchmaker! Gotta love him, even if Kel doesn't :P.<em>


	3. Primrose Path

So it continues :). I'll put up the first four, and then take a break while I write ahead. Enjoy, and please review and tell me if anything needs fixing/is awesome/sucks :P.

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><p><strong>Primrose Path<strong>

_I shall the effect of this good lesson keep,  
>As watchman to my heart. But, good my brother,<br>Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,  
>Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven;<br>Whiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine,  
>Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads,<br>And recks not his own rede. -_Hamlet

It still hurt to wake up to an empty bed. Kel stared up at the ceiling for a good half-hour on her first day at Cavall, watching the sunlight inch across the ceiling as the sun rose above the hills surrounding the manor. It was a grand room, grander than her suite at the palace, but she couldn't seem to look around to admire it in the light of day. That would be acknowledging her new place, her new orders, that had sent her far from the man she once loved.

And that, of course, brought more tears.

When she had finally composed herself, she got up and went to the window. It opened easily, allowing her to lean across the broad sill and look out over the yard. Her room faced west over the village; and beyond, the rolling paddocks where brown and gray and white blobs grazed. The famous horseflesh of Cavall's ancient stock. The town itself was small, but bustling with life and good health, even so early in the morning. The butcher was running a steady trade out of the back door of his house as housewives came seeking the day's choicest cuts. A cart rolled in from the east, belonging to an apple-seller come from the nearest village. In the center square, men and woman alike set up their carts and stalls for the day's work. It was market day in Cavall, and it promised to be a fine one.

Closer to the manor was an open, park-like field dotted with trees; to one side of her window, she saw the near edge of the kitchen garden with its high stone wall, herbs and vegetables growing in profusion. A slightly stooped, broad woman was inspecting the tomato vines for ripe fruit – the cook, no doubt – while a younger lad plucked parasitic beetles off the cabbages. A lanky greyhound puppy romped behind him.

Movement around the other side of the house caught her attention, and Kel stood back a bit from the window as the master of the house rounded the corner, deep in conversation with what looked to be a woodsman. He was a rugged man, bearded, and dressed in greens and browns; a bow was slung across his back. A rough-looking wolfhound trotted obediently at his side, studiously ignoring the dog that trailed Wyldon. It was an usual creature, short, with long silky hair and the longest ears Kel had ever seen on a dog. It was brown and white, with large, adoring eyes; it looked up at its master as though he was the sun and the moon.

As Kel watched curiously, the woodsman bowed to Lord Wyldon and look his leave. Left alone, her host squatted on his heels and ran his hand affectionately over his dog's soft fur until the creature was writhing with delight. He was close enough to her second-story window that she could catch snatches of soft nonsense-talk and laughter. Enjoying the attention, the dog rolled over, and Wyldon obligingly scratched her belly.

Feeling odd, Kel watched the interaction with curiosity. She'd never seen him with his dogs in the year they'd been in and around Corus together, and it displayed a side of him she'd never seen. While friendship and camaraderie had sprouted naturally from their close association during and after the Scanran War, he had only ever shown such devoted affection for his youngest daughter, Margarry, and even that had not brought out this level of ease.

As if sensing her musings, Wyldon stood, brushing dog hair from his breeches, and looked up. Seeing her framed in the window, he lifted a hand in greeting. She nodded curtly in reply before withdrawing. After all, it would hardly do to converse from an open window when she was clad only in her nightshirt.

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><p>Downstairs, dressed in a comfortable shirt, leggings, and soft boots against the late summer heat, Kel met her host in the entry hall. His dog bounded in ahead of him, ears flapping, to inspect her, and she crouched to run her fingers through the silky fur.<p>

"That's Primrose," Wyldon said, standing a little apart with his thumbs in his belt.

"She's lovely," she replied, letting the eager creature lick her hand. "What kind of dog is she? I've never seen the like."

"She's a spaniel," she was told, his distant manner softening slightly at the clear approval his dog was expressing for his guest. "I breed them for bird hunting – they flush the prey from the undergrowth, and retrieve it once it's been brought down." He gave a brief, low whistle, summoning the dog – who was braced on Kel's knees, cold nose exploring her face and hair – back to his side. Primrose looked up, panting slightly, delight clear on her grinning face as her feathery tail swept the floor.

"I'm sorry if I missed breakfast –"

He waved a hand, forestalling her. "It's all right. I'm afraid I'm a little unused to company, so I eat whenever it suits me. I will have the servants set out breakfast things, if you like."

Kel shrugged. "I'm not very hungry. I thought perhaps I'd beg something from the kitchens, and see if Peachblossom and Socrates have settled in."

"The cooks will prepare whatever you like," he said neutrally. She knew he was watching for evidence of depression on her face, and carefully maintained her Yamani mask. "Perhaps after you eat, I could give you a tour of the grounds? There is a new litter of setter pups in the kennels."

A wry smile tugged at her cheeks, and her mask slipped. "Appealing to a woman's tender sensibilities, my lord? I thought you above such persuasion."

He bowed to hide his own smile, though the gleam in his dark eyes was unmistakable. "Whatever my lady requires, I provide."

"A lawyer's answer," she scoffed, but agreed. Discussing her duties could wait, as long as there were horses to see to and puppies to fawn over.


	4. Household Words

**Household Words**

_Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,  
>But he'll remember with advantages<br>What feats he did that day: then shall our names.  
>Familiar in his mouth as household words. <em>–Henry V

It felt good to be home. Discussing matters of dogs and game with his lead huntsman, wandering the grounds in the early morning light with Primrose by his side, seemed to put a spell of relaxation upon him.

What he hadn't been expecting was to look up and find Keladry looking down at him with the oddest expression on her face: confusion, and loneliness, and hunger. But hunger for what? Like so many others, he'd raised Primrose from puppy to adult, and she was now his dearest canine companion; her presence and adoration had been one of the few things to help him through the long, lonely winter following his wife's death. Perhaps it was that easy, adoring relationship with his dog that Kel envied. Perhaps it reminded her of her own adoration for a certain Sergeant, and the failure that had arisen when he proved to be unfaithful.

Perhaps it was Wyldon himself she wanted. As a friend, a companion, a…

He cut himself off. The thought was untoward. Just because the morning light cast such a rosy glow over her sleepy features, cutting through the thin cotton of her nightshirt to reveal more than she intended, didn't mean he had the right to dwell on what he'd seen.

_What would Vivienne think of me?_ That thought sliced through his muddled head, and he felt more like himself. This was not the time to develop an infatuation with a girl nearly half his age, especially after her own recent heartbreak.

"They're adorable," she whispered suddenly, bringing him back to the present. He knew Mindelan didn't breed dogs, but Keladry was such an animal-lover she could hardly help but appreciate his kennels. And, as he had hoped, her stone-cold manner was being quickly thawed by the eight balls of red fluff sleeping in a haphazard pile in their whelping box. The mother, eager for a break from her nursing duties, rose to her feet and padded over, thrusting her nose into Wyldon's hand.

"They're red setters," he told her. "Like spaniels, they're bred for retrieving waterfowl and other birds."

"I know so little about dogs," she admitted with a self-deprecating laugh, kneeling over the edge of the box to trail her fingers along their tiny faces and rounded bellies.

"You can hardly escape learning about them here," he said dryly. "Consider it an extension of your education regarding horses."

"I will." She tossed a smile over her shoulder, and his heart stammered.

_Perhaps I ought to see a healer,_ he thought, firmly suppressing any doubt that the palpitation was anything but health-related. He'd never had heart trouble before, but there was a first time for everything.


	5. A Man by Any Other Name

**A Man by Any Other Name**

_That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet. –Romeo and Juliet_

"How did you find out?"

The question was unexpected, but justified. Kel straightened, wiping sweat from her brow as she leaned against her pitchfork. The physicality of mucking out stalls was satisfying, even if it was hotter than Carthak outside, and she took a moment to catch her breath before replying.

"Neal told me." She accepted the waterskin Wyldon handed her with a nod of thanks, and drank deeply. "He and Dom and a few friends went into the city for a couple drinks. Neal doesn't much like to drink, but he… had his suspicions. Dom was pretty tipsy, so he walked him back to his rooms, and got the truth out of him." Kel smiled grimly. "Neal was furious. He said he nearly sent Dom into a coma, but shattered the windows instead."

Wyldon raised a grudgingly impressed eyebrow. "I didn't know healers had that kind of ability."

"The Gift is the Gift," Kel replied, shrugging to indicate her own lack of expertise in the area. "I guess when you're that angry, and you lose control… things just happen." Taking up her pitchfork again, she dug the tines into the soiled hay and tipped it into the waiting wheelbarrow. Wyldon pushed up his sleeves again and did the same.

They worked for a little while longer, until the stall was clean-swept and ready to be filled with fresh hay. Outside, through the stable doors flung wide in the hopes of catching the slightest breeze, Kel could see Socrates frolicking in the sun with two other foals that had been born recently. Just the thought of leaping and running in such a manner made her sag with weariness, and it was with some relief that she gave Wyldon the dubious honor of climbing up into the stuffy hayloft to retrieve the new bedding.

"Is there anymore water?" she asked, watching his progress up the ladder. In his place, she might have given up already from exhaustion and heat.

"Not in the waterskin," he replied, throwing the words over his shoulder as he reached the loft. "But there's a trough outside the door, and the water from the pump is good for drinking."

Intrigued - water pumps, while commonplace in Carthak and Yaman, were scarce in Tortall - Kel went outside as directed and found the trough. It was half-filled with murky, tepid water warmed by the sun, and she wrinkled her nose. But the pump, new-painted metal protruding from the ground, looked more promising, and she jerked the handle up and down a few times. She was rewarded when a spray of clean, ice-cold water burst from the spigot, and she gratefully thrust her head beneath the flow. The water, kept chill by the underground spring that was its source, soothed away the pounding ache in her skull that the summer heat had invoked, and trickled down her neck to wash away the sweat. She spared a glance for the stable door. Wyldon was still in the loft, pitching down forkfuls of hay, and there wasn't a hostler to be seen. Before her common sense could catch up with her, she pulled her shirt over her head and ducked under the spout again, relishing the splash of cold water over her heated back. It soaked her breastband and poured down her sides and along her stomach, chasing away the sweat and grit of hard labor.

"Goddess, that feels good," she sighed, straightening. She nearly jumped out of her skin to find Wyldon standing in the doorway, a carefully neutral expression firmly in place over his clean-shaven features.

"I'd suggest getting your shirt wet as well," he offered, still expressionless. "It will help keep you cool, and prevent irritation when we start pitching hay."

Mortified and trying desperately not to show it, Kel jammed her shirt beneath the spigot and fought to pull it over her head. When she finally succeeded, it hardly did any good. The water plastered the shirt to her body like a second skin, showing everything it touched in near-perfect detail. Scowling inwardly, she somehow maintained her Yamani mask and strode past Wyldon into the stables.

She was somewhat mollified when he returned in a similar state, falling back into the rhythm of hard work without a word about finding her half-naked at his horse trough. Of course, the effect of water on his shirt was no different from hers. Grimly, she kept her eyes on her pitchfork; no one could accuse him of being physically unfit for duty. Unfortunately, the very female portion of her brain refused to listen, and acknowledged his fitness quite approvingly. _Dom was the handsomest man I'd ever known, and he still had a viper's heart_, she reminded herself, successfully stifling the unwanted voice. _You can't trust a good-looking man ever again. Deep down, they're all the same._

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><p><strong>Aw, poor Kel! :P I guess wet shirts are pure fanservice, but there has to be some UST somewhere! Did Wyldon deliberately suggest it? Perhaps. He's an honorable man, so I prefer to think he did it purely out of concern for Kel getting heatstroke, but of course you can interpret it as you wish :P. Review, please! 3<br>**


	6. Let Slip the Dogs of War

Rating goes up with this chapter for violence.

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><p><strong>Let Slip the Dogs of War<strong>

_Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war._ –Julius Caesar

The call came at lunch, while they were discussing the needs of the fief over poached salmon. The messenger was the boy Kel had seen in the garden earlier. His hair was a riot of sweaty red curls, and his face was flushed and damp with perspiration as he bowed before the table, gasping.

"Bandits, milord, in Highfallow." His voice was high and strained, hoarse with the prickle of thorns dragging on skin. He was exhausted. How far had he run?

Wyldon was on his feet in an instant, meal forgotten as he threw his napkin on the table. "How many?"

"Fifteen, milord. Master Gavin reckons there's more in the hills."

Kel stood too, though with less fire. Her body was taut with anticipation as she awaited orders, every fiber of her being straining to dash to the stables and saddle Peachblossom.

"Stay here and eat something – there's plenty left." Wyldon ruffled the boy's hair with a tender hand. "You've done well, Tomas. Keladry," and his tone sharpened, "I'm afraid you're going to be plunged into this affair sooner than we thought. If you could ready our horses, I'll speak with my huntsman and see about reinforcements."

"Of course." She didn't even pause to bow, but left the room at a run, heart racing. She hadn't seen this kind of action since the war, and was eager to grip a sword in her hand again – or maybe she would take her glaive. _I'll bring both_, she decided, and ran harder.

It was twenty minutes' hard ride to the next village, but Peachblossom and Cavall's Heart made it in a little over fifteen. The men Wyldon had selected to back them up followed at a slower pace on foot. Upon their arrival, she saw that Wyldon hadn't been exaggerating in their conversation over lunch. The villages scattered throughout the fief were prepared for this sort of thing, and Highfallow was no exception. Wagons, carts, and all manner of wooden scraps had been erected around a good portion of the town, preventing the bandits from entering by horse. The menfolk – and some of the women – bore bows and arrows, staves, hatchets, and other, less conventional weapons, including frying pans and lengths of knotted rope.

Unfortunately, they didn't entirely look as if they knew how to use them.

Kel and Wyldon dismounted in the shadow of the headman's house, where his wife met them. She was only twenty or so, with a pretty face set in a grim expression and a kerchief hiding light yellow hair; her plain skirts were hiked up to allow freer movement, and she gripped a pitchfork like she knew what she was about.

"My husband is injured," she said without preamble. Her voice was educated, if slightly rough around the edges. "He's in the house with a concussion."

"How many others are hurt?" Wyldon asked. "Where is the village healer?"

The headman's wife jerked her head to indicate her own house. "Inside. The hedgewitch done set up a temporary infirmary in my kitchen. There's not more'n three or four been bad hurt."

He nodded briskly, satisfied with the arrangement. "And what is the state of the defense?"

"We've our barricade, milord, but they done burned three houses afore we could drive them off," she replied. "Five are dead. Kurt reckons they're working up for a second go." She spat in the dirt to indicate what she thought of bandits. "Beggin' your pardon, milord, but they've got one with the Gift, and these people are superstitious. That's why they're all clustered in the center, like. Don't want to be anywhere near the scum."

Without waiting for orders, Kel ducked into the headman's house. The kitchen was just inside. A woman older than the headman's wife, perhaps in her late forties, was bent over a stringy-looking lad, amber-colored fire swirling around her hands and sinking into the gaping hole in his chest. As Kel watched, the hole sealed itself up, and the boy gasped a breath.

"That's the last 'un," the hedgewitch sighed, sitting back. She looked up, squinting. "You ain't Marala, beggin' your pardon."

"No," Kel answered, wondering if Marala was the headman's wife. "I'm Lady Knight Keladry of Mindelan. If you've any Gift left, I'm going to need you."

The woman stood, brushing off her skirts. "I've got a few drops left, milady. What do you need me to do?"

Kel smiled grimly. "I need you to cast an illusion. Do you have the strength for that?"

A decisive nod. "Illusions are easy enough. Just point me in the right direction, milady."

When they emerged, Wyldon gave her a raised eyebrow and a look that clearly said he wanted answers _now_, thank you.

"I've worked with civilians in their own defense before, my lord," she said, "including those who are Gifted. If the villagers are superstitious, perhaps it's time to give the bandits a taste of their own medicine. When do you expect your people to arrive?"

"Within the next quarter of an hour," Wyldon replied, apparently content to let her take command. A test, no doubt. "What orders would you have me give them?"

"Ask them to split up. One half needs to circle around the village and try and get behind the bandits. The other circles around the other way to cut off their escape to the river. With horses, they could cross it. Is there a good place to hold them on foot?"

Marala, the headman's wife, answered in a crisp voice. It seemed to Kel she wasn't certain what to make of this young female knight who gave orders to her lord. "Aye, there's a steep bank this side o' the river. In one spot there's a narrow path wide enough for one horse to pass at a time, and two boulders on either side o' this. In spring it's a stream, but this late in the summer it's naught but dry streambed."

Kel nodded decisively. "Perfect. That'll be their getaway, if we push them on three sides towards the stream. I'll take one half of the manor force and hold that path."

"We'll crush them between us." Wyldon nodded, approval in his weathered face. "Very well. Marala, I need two or three brave youngsters who know how to count and how to stay unseen. It will help us to know just what kind of force we're up against."

"I know jest the ones, m'lord," the hedgewitch piped up, ignoring Marala's disapproving glance. Apparently those with the Gift were not looked upon favorably in this village. "Pair o' twins, orphans – sweating sickness took their parents two winters back. The village raises 'em amongst ourselves, and they're as plucky as any young'uns you could wish for."

"Bring them here, please," Kel told her, smiling to counteract Marala's sniff. "Then I'll talk to you about this illusion."

The children were brought, tow-headed, lanky creatures with nut-brown skin and bare feet toughened by summer. They were dressed in identical undyed smocks, though the boy wore breeches with the girl's hem fell to a little past her knees. Wyldon gave them their directions, reminded them the need to be careful, and off they went, already ducking and weaving as they neared the edge of the town where the barricade met tall, sun-warmed hay nearly ready for harvest. Meanwhile, Kel had a few quiet words with the hedgewitch, Deirdre, and the older woman went quickly and quietly into her own home to begin her work.

She returned to the headman's back door to find Wyldon in deep discussion with the same huntsman she had seen earlier that week. The knight beckoned her forward as she approached, and she slid obediently into place beside him.

"Keladry, this is Basten, my head huntsman," he said. "I am sending him and ten of his men with you to the river."

"Lady knight." The huntsman bowed deeply, his voice just as cultured as Marala's. Kel realized that he, and all the younger set of adults in fief Cavall, have received an education, probably being the first generation of those benefiting from Queen Thayet's schools for commoners. She tried not to look at Wyldon in surprise. Somehow she had not expected him to side so readily with such progressive changes in the realm.

"We'll leave now, if that's acceptable," she said, speaking to both men at the same time.

Wyldon inclined his head. "This is your venture, Keladry. I am at your disposal."

Slightly uncomfortable with the idea of giving him orders, she brought her mask up and explained briefly how he and the rest of their motley force would herd the bandits toward the river where Kel and her men waited. He seemed to understand her discomfiture, because he agreed without preamble and sent her and Basten on their way. As Kel followed the huntsman to the woods where his men waited, she watched him stride to the cluster of fearful villagers, giving orders that put them at ease. She smiled briefly to herself. No doubt they were relieved at not having to follow the orders of a female knight.

Upon reaching the river, reasonably certain they'd gone undetected by the bandits, Kel spread her small force along the edge of the small ravine, selecting the four best sharpshooters to man the boulders to either side of the dried-up streambed. She didn't like their position, relatively low compared to the hill the bandits would be coming from, but there was little she could to about that. She would have to hope that none of the bandits would try and jump the river. If they went anywhere but the streambed, the plan would fail.

_It pays to be paranoid_, Raoul had told her once. She sent two men along the riverbank, one in either direction, just in case the bandits decided to be unorthodox this once. The jump from the high-cut bank to the river could break a horse's legs, but desperate men did crazy things.

Now came the waiting – Kel's least favorite part. She resisted the urge to climb the boulder and look for herself. If Wyldon trusted these men, then she would, too. Besides, she was no longer a green knight. Fidgeting was a waste of energy. Instead she ran the plan through her head several times, walking slowly and evenly along the open stretch of bank that was just out of sight of the hilltop, ignoring the occasional glance of the two men nearest her. They seemed calm enough, squatting on their heels against the packed earth of the cliff-bank. Kel drew on years of practice hiding her emotions, stilling her nerves until she breathed easily.

_I am stone._

The sounds of battle drew her abruptly from her shell, and she went to the edge of the bank where Basten waited in the lee of boulder. He conferred with the other man, who was acting as look-out, and bent to speak with her.

"Lord Wyldon and the villagers have them surrounded on three sides, m'lady," he said, voice made whiskery by the beard that fluffed around it. "'Tis going just as you hoped. What orders?"

Kel pitched her voice to carry along the stream bank, knowing the sounds of their own flight would keep the bandits from hearing her.

"Step up to the bank, and aim for the horses. I'd prefer capture to killing, and if we aim too high we risk hitting one of our own. When they're halfway down the hill, start shooting. I'll tell you when to break cover. When we do, spears first – archers cover us."

Wishing she had thought to bring her own bow, Kel hefted her glaive in one hand, accustoming herself to the familiar weight. As she braced herself to one side of the dried-up streambed, the archers began to shoot. Their arrows whistled through the air, and she strained to follow the sound with her ears. She hated commanding blind, but there was no more room against the cliff-bank for her to see the battle herself.

The bandits returned fire, but their arrows flew harmlessly over their heads to land in the river or clatter against the opposite bank. Kel ducked nonetheless, drawing closer to where Basten coolly pulled and released with the steadiness of complete control. When an arrow grazed his arm, landing a handbreadth away from Kel, he hardly flinched, stopping only to check the depth of the wound before returning to his archery.

A horn blew: the signal.

"Archers, fall back!" Kel shouted. "Spears forward, archers cover us!"

With the rush of battle surging through her, Kel leaped up the narrow pathway in time to cut off a horseman from escaping. In the precious few seconds between falling back and regrouping to cover them, the archers were still below the bank, and the rest of the spearmen still scrambling up the cliff. She had no time to think. Bracing herself, she ducked the hillman's awkward sword-thrust and brought her glaive haft up, knocking the weapon aside. The horse shied from her, and she followed, thrusting with the deadly blue blade.

The bandit swayed, staring at the deep slash in his torso, and toppled off the horse. Already terrified, the loss of its rider sent the beast into panic. Screaming a challenge, it lashed out with its hooves and burst through the two spearmen who appeared on the bank before it, making a frantic leap for the stream. Kel bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as the horse's forelegs splintered upon impact. The horse shrieked, an eerie sound that pierced the air and brought a sudden halt to the fighting, and fell on its side in the water.

"You!" Kel grabbed the nearest spearman, an older fellow with a scar across one eye. "Give that poor animal the mercy stroke."

As he leaped to obey her command, she turned and realized it was over. The villagers and her own men had the remainder of the hillmen surrounded, and they huddled together docilely in the center of a ring of spears. Wyldon, astride his proud mare, was flanked on either side by four knights in gleaming armor – Deirdre's illusion. As Kel watched, they flickered and died, leaving behind four village men riding old cart-pulling cobs.

Kel let Wyldon take over the aftermath of the battle. The suicidal leap of the horse had shaken her, and she only just kept her lunch from reappearing. She was bending to clean her bloody glaive when she caught a glimpse of the hillman she had brought down. She leaned closer for a better look, and felt as though someone had punched her in the stomach.

He was just a boy. Hardly older than Tobe, with straw-like hair and brown eyes that bulged sightlessly up at the sky. He was nearly skeletal with hunger, and his fingers still clutched fruitlessly at the gaping hole left by Kel's glaive.

This time she did throw up, retching into the bushes until there was nothing left in her stomach. She straightened shakily and wiped her mouth. What she wouldn't give for a waterskin! Stumbling down to the river was out of the question, with the lifeless horse still sprawled in the middle of the water.

"Mindelan." That firm voice shook her from her stupor and swung her around in time to see Wyldon dismount in front of her. He offered his own waterskin, which she took gratefully. When her mouth felt relatively clean again, she handed it back.

"He was just a boy," she whispered, wondering if she might fall down. Her knees couldn't seem to stop trembling. "He was just a boy, and I killed him in cold blood."

Wyldon look back at her with regret in his eyes, and took her shoulder. "Mount up before you fall over, Keladry."

She obeyed, forcing her arms to pull the rest of her up onto Cavall's Heart's broad back. It felt like a precarious perch at best, but it cleared her head; somehow she helped supervise the cleanup back at the village while Wyldon took care of the battlefield, trying very hard not to think of that slack face tipped toward the blue sky.


	7. Love is Blind

This chapter is all for HuginnsMuse, who continues to review unfailingly and give my day an extra boost; also for lovely-sorrow and aluap96, who kindly reviewed previous chapters, and everyone else who has faved or alerted my stories or me! I'm so honored to have people read and enjoy my little pet projects :).

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><p><strong>Love is Blind<strong>

Kel's fists smacked down hard against the table, and Jump whined at her feet. She sat back with a sigh, shaking her head at Wyldon's querying look. "Sometimes I get so angry with myself," she explained.

He set down his quill, giving her his full attention. "How so?"

"I knew him so well. Dom. And yet I never once imagined he could… do this."

It was the week after they had routed the bandits, and Kel had just returned from Highfallow after an intensive training program in defense. It was late August, and she'd been continuously forced to work around the harvest schedule that kept so many villagers busy from dawn until dusk. However, she was now reasonably sure of several things. First, the townspeople were adequately provisioned and trained to defend themselves against hillmen on their own. Second, they had a much more favorable outlook on the hedgewitch, Deirdre. She couldn't eradicate the superstition of generations entirely, but at least Marala and her husband now supported the older woman. Hopefully, the rest would follow.

Thirdly, Kel was beginning to doubt herself. She'd experienced her share of fears and mistakes during her four years at Haven and New Hope, and certainly knew what it felt like to feel inadequate in the face of those far more skilled and experienced than she. But this was something new. The killing of that boy had torn at something fundamental inside of her. So she threw herself into her work, training the young men and women alongside their parents and grandparents, but always feeling the futility of her own penance. A life was a life. He couldn't help it if he was starving. Remembering Owen's cheerful promise that they would rid Tortall of bandits within ten years, Kel shivered.

Yet even this new horror could not dampen the bitter heartache that had brought her here in the first place. Lying awake at night on her pallet in the headman's cottage, too physically and emotionally exhausted to sleep, she would think of a pair of sparkling blue eyes and an earnest smile, and wonder where she'd gone wrong.

"We often see the best in those we love," Wyldon said, breaking her reverie. His fingers, somehow elegant although calloused and battle-scarred, fiddled with the quill absently. "Usually it is a gift. When we forget what caused us to love in the first place, it sours the relationship. But we have to temper it with honesty and caution. People are imperfect, and seeing them through rose-colored glasses can be dangerous."

Kel was not surprised by his frankness, but by his loquaciousness. Wyldon rarely chattered – indeed, some days he hardly spoke at all if he could help it – and as a page she had grown accustomed to the slow, dragging quality of his words, as though each were a part of him that he was reluctant to give up. But spending time with him at Cavall had loosened something in his manner, his way of communicating. Half the time he spoke more with body language than with actual words, and that was not unusual; but when he did speak it was with none of the reluctance he had displayed as her training master.

"I knew he liked to flirt," Kel said after a moment, staring down sightlessly at her own reports. There was plenty of space on his enormous oak desk for both of them to work, and it prevented shouting across the hall to ask questions or clarify points. It also allowed her to confess all the things that weighed down her heart, and him to continue to be the ever-steady, ever-reliable man of stone. Sometimes she wondered what she would do without him.

"Plenty of men do," was his dry riposte. "Why should he be any different?"

"He never flirted with me." Kel's brow furrowed. "And I never tried. I'm too practical for that kind of nonsense. Maybe that's where we went wrong."

Wyldon didn't answer right away, moving instead to refill their glasses with fruit nectar. It was lighter than juice, and cool, and it chased away the dryness of her throat and the dampness lying stickily along her back. It wasn't as hot as that day in the stables, but it was still stuffy; the windows remained closed in a fruitless attempt to keep the heat out for as long as possible.

"Regardless of the state of your relationship, sleeping with another woman was not the solution." Wyldon sipped, and sat back in his chair, watching her closely. "You are not to blame for his weakness, Keladry."

She met his dark eyes, and smiled hesitantly. "Sometimes I forget that."

He lifted his glass briefly in a toast. "That's why I'm here to remind you."


	8. Frailty, Thy Name is Woman

_Kel is embarrassed by the effects of her monthlies, but Wyldon remains unfazed._

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><p><strong>Frailty, Thy Name is Woman<strong>

"Keladry?"

Kel looked up from the puppies pooling in her lap, and smiled weakly. "Hello, my lord. I'm sorry I missed dinner. You didn't wait for me, did you?"

Wyldon shook his head, resting his weight against the door frame. "Narda told me you weren't taking dinner tonight." He hesitated briefly, and then swung one leg over the side of the whelping box. The mother greeted him with a lolling tongue and a steady _thump-thump_ of her tail, and he bent to ruffle her sleek head before sitting across the space from Kel. Even with his long legs folded, he seemed to fill the box, especially when he leaned forward to scoop up a particularly adventurous red-gold bundle.

"May I ask what brings you here?" he asked finally, allowing the puppy to nibble harmlessly at his calloused fingertips.

She trained her eyes to the three pups slumbering in her lap. "Just lonely."

"You know you can always come to me, Keladry." His voice, like his hands on the puppy, was surprisingly gentle, and it brought a tell-tale prickle to her eyelids that was becoming all too familiar.

"Yes." She bit off the 'sir' that wanted to follow. He had insisted, somewhere between her return from Scanra and the end of the war, that she call him by his given name. Sometimes she forgot. "Thank you," she added, a little thickly. She felt incredibly foolish, but they was little she could do about it except continue to fondle the adorable creatures nestled in her lap. Hormones were hormones, after all.

"You're not thinking of Masbolle again, are you?" His voice was a study in disapproval and reproach, and she welcomed the smile that stretched the corners of her mouth. Maybe it would banish the lump that threatened to overwhelm her throat.

"No. Just…" She heaved a sigh, beating with ineffectual fists at the tide threatening to swamp her. "It's nothing." She couldn't bring herself to look at him. What must he think of her. _A weak, stupid woman._ Anger rose, briefly, only to be replaced with a stab of shame. Her eyes overflowed suddenly, and she ducked her head to hide her face from him.

He let her struggle in silence for a while, and then cleared his throat. "Monthlies?"

This shocked her out of her sorrow, and she looked up at him with an open mouth, heedless of the wetness glistening on her cheeks. "How did you know?"

Wyldon chuckled, allowing another puppy to scramble up onto his lap. "Don't be embarrassed. I once had to deal with five women having theirs all at the same time. Trust me, I know the signs."

"Oh." Regaining her presence of mind, she wiped her tears from cheeks that burned with embarrassment. She'd never thought she'd be discussing such a… female… subject with Lord Wyldon, of all people; and if she had, she would never have imagined him being so relaxed about it.

"I hope you're not embarrassed by it," he remarked, almost idly. "It's a fact of life, hardly anything to fuss over."

"It's never slowed me down before," Kel said, still wanting, irrationally, to prove she was as good as any man.

"It certainly hasn't," he replied, meeting her eyes squarely. "Perhaps it is a mark of a woman's fitness for knighthood that she can cope with monthlies, pregnancy, and childbearing, and still train, fight, and command as well as – if not better than – her male counterparts."

Kel regarded him closely, and finally smiled. "If only the conservatives could hear you now."

He barked a laugh, startling the puppies in her lap into wakefulness. They mewled protests for a moment before settling to gnawing one another's ears contentedly. "I'm in a unique position, I fear. The conservatives feel I have betrayed them, and the progressives dislike me." He gave an eloquent shrug. "Perhaps that is why I am so fond of dogs. They don't care what your politics are."

"I think that's why I came here," Kel admitted, rescuing a smaller pup who was squalling in protest at having its hind leg tugged on by its fellow. "Dogs accept you for who you are, even if you're just a silly girl."

Wyldon's eyes twinkled in amusement. "I think you, Keladry, of all people have earned the right to be a silly girl now and then. Mithros knows you make up for it the rest of the time."

Kel's laugh was genuine this time, and she felt her heart lighten at his words. "Thank you, Wyldon." A brief prickle of déjà vu washed over her at his reply – _you're quite welcome, Keladry_ – and she grinned, returning her attention the puppies scrambling in her lap.


	9. Night Owl

**Night Owl**

_Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch? –_Twelfth Night

Kel peered through the sheeting rain toward the dark bulk on the hilltop, gratified to see the lamps burning in a few of the windows. Mithros knew she was looking forward to a good soak in front of a fire, and maybe some mulled cider before settling down to bed. She was always stiff and sore after a couple of days on the road; experience told her she would need an hour or so to wind down before she could relax enough for bed. Thankfully, the message she'd sent ahead by pigeon had reached the manor house, and the servants had everything prepared for her arrival.

It was the second week of September, and she'd just finished yet another rigorous training session with the people of Owlbridge, a modest village about three day's ride from Highfallow. It had been a very rewarding experience. The headwoman, Mistress Libba, reminded her strongly of Fanche, and they'd gotten on quite well together. That, combined with the eagerness of her pupils, had made her job easy. In fact, she'd promised to return in two weeks to lead a short training camp for the village youths, concentrating on staff-work and archery. The thought of returning to such enthusiastic students brought a smile to her face.

But for now, all she wanted was to get warm and dry, and scrub a week's worth of road grit from her skin. The fall rains were beginning to pick up, and harvest was commencing at a frantic rate as the fief's ten-odd villages scrambled to bring in hay and oats before the weather ruined them. This particular storm had started with a slow drizzle earlier that morning, and had only gotten heavier as the day wore on.

Reaching the stables, Kel gratefully handed Peachblossom over to a hostler and stopped by Socrates' stall to say hello. He greeted her eagerly, devouring the apple core she'd saved from her ride, and planted a few whiskery kisses on her face before she dragged herself off to brave the wet walk from stable to manor.

She was walking down the hall leading to her rooms when she realized the door to Lord Wyldon's office was open. Light fell across the floor to splash against the opposite wall; from inside came the faint scratching sound of a quill on parchment. Slowing her pace, Kel paused just outside the door and looked in.

Wyldon was at his desk, bent over something and writing busily. His free hand tapped the rim of an empty glass, pink with the dregs of grape juice, or perhaps mulled wine. Kel was surprised by the surge of fondness that rose up within her at the familiar sight – and then she blinked. He was wearing _spectacles_. Perfectly out of place, more suited to someone like Sir Myles than her old training master, they perched midway down his nose, the wire rims glinting faintly in the light of the lamp that flickered on the corner of his desk.

He looked up suddenly, and saw her. There was an odd, detached look in his eyes for a moment, and then it cleared, and he snatched the spectacles off his face, clearing his throat gruffly.

"Welcome back."

"Sir." She bowed, hiding a smile. "I hope you didn't wait up for me."

Again, that flicker in his eyes, and then it was gone. "Not really. I'm just a night owl." He cleaned his quill and set it down. "Your journey was successful?"

"Yes, milord. We cleared up a small pocket of bandits while I was there."

"Excellent." He rubbed his forehead, sitting back in the chair with a sigh. "I asked Narda to have a bath prepared for you. The water should still be warm, unless the mage-spells are wearing out."

"Thank you." Kel hesitated, eyeing the quietly gleaming contraption on the desk, and added, "I didn't know you wore spectacles, sir."

His baleful stare cut right through her, and she had to muffle a giggle behind one hand. "Say a word of that to anyone – _especially_ Queenscove – and I will personally challenge you to a joust at every tournament for the next twenty years."

This time the giggle escaped entirely, though her attempt at hiding it made it sound more like a cackle. "Forgive me, my lord," she apologized when he huffed at her. "Don't worry, they make you look quite distinguished." _And adorable_, came the unwarranted afterthought, but she carefully jammed that back into the furthest corner of her mind that she could find.

His lips twisted in a disbelieving smile. "I'm sure." He eyed her again. "You're soaked, Mindelan. Go wash up and get to bed. I'll have breakfast sent up."

"You don't have to –"

"Nonsense. I can hear your report in the morning. Go on." He waved a hand at her, and this time she obeyed, still inwardly smirking at his disgruntled expression.

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><p><em>Confession: I totally stole that "I will personally challenge you to a joust at every tournament for the next twenty years" quote from someone, I just can't remember who or what fic! If you know, please tell me so I can give proper credit :P. Also, thank you so much to lovely-sorrow and Painelust for reviewing!<br>_


	10. Night Owl Redux

Felt like Wyldon deserved a say in how the story's going :P. Short and sweet, but there's more to come! Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, faved, etc this story! It really means a lot!

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><p><strong>Night Owl Redux<strong>

_This said, his guilty hand pluck'd up the latch,  
>And with his knee the door he opens wide.<br>The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch:  
>Thus treason works ere traitors be espied. –<em>The Rape of Lucrece

When Wyldon looked up and saw her standing there, just watching him, something inside him had wrenched fiercely. She was rain-drenched and travel-stained and so very _alive_. Her hair, turned a russet-gold by the summer sun, was darkened with wet and curled damply against her ruddy cheeks. Her eyelashes gathered together to form dark points around her glittering eyes; her full mouth was red and slightly chapped from the weather.

He was so overcome that it took a few moments for his mind to reassert itself and remind him of who and where he was. It was with a very embarrassed hand that he snatched off his spectacles. Yet for all the awkwardness of being caught out in one of his weaknesses – perhaps he would see a healer in a few years, when it got so bad he couldn't read in full daylight, but not until then – he was pleased that she had stopped to talk. He would never admit that he _had_ waited up for her, but he was still gratified that she'd delayed her own comfort for his sake.

_Don't get comfortable_, he told himself sternly even as he recommended she go wash up. _She sees you as a father figure, nothing more_.

It was then, feeling the deep thrust of pain in his chest, that Wyldon realized for the first time just how deeply he cared for Keladry of Mindelan.


	11. Out of House and Home

You guys are awesome! Thanks for reviewing so faithfully! :)

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><p><strong>Out of House and Home<strong>

_It is more than for some, my lord; it is for all, all I have. He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his: but I will have some of it out again._ – Henry IV, Part II

Kel wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and returned to stirring the cauldron bubbling over the fire. The fire was gods-cursed _hot_, and the steam that curled up delicately from the roiling water wasn't half as elusive as it looked. Already her hair was plastered to her face, and she could feel the unpleasant dampness of sweat forming down her back and beneath her arms and breasts. And the contents of the pot weren't even attractive to smell. Not that boiling cloths didn't smell _un_pleasant; but it was a far cry from the delicious savory aromas of stew or pudding.

The housekeeper, an older woman called Narda, peered around Kel and nodded decisively. "They'll be done now, just about. Swing 'em away from the fire and we'll set 'em out to dry."

Kel obeyed wordlessly – it was too hot even to speak – and swung the arm of the cauldron out and away from the fire. Safely back from the flames, she reached in with her paddle and removed the cloths one by one and laid them on a drying rack.

The laundry room, built just beneath the kitchen with slitted windows near the ceiling, was bustling with activity. House servants and village women alike moved to and fro bearing arm- and basketfuls of laundry, dirty as well as clean, to be washed or taken upstairs as needed. Others bundled up wet blankets to be taken outside for drying, or worked to shave the large blocks of soap into smaller, manageable fragments. And always, at each station, a fire burning hot to keep the water boiling.

The illness had struck without warning three days ago. The local healer had identified it quickly enough to prevent it from spreading, for which Kel was incredibly grateful. It was hard enough worrying about tending more than half the village without worrying about the rest of the fief. As soon as Wyldon had word, he'd had the sick transported to the manor house for quarantine and sent messengers to the capital asking for more healers. The village surrounding the manor house had three healers, but only two were fully trained. The third, while powerful, was still an apprentice, and had little control over the intensity of her magic.

So instead of hunting bandits or training villagers, as she'd been doing for a little over a month, Kel was sweating and stirring in the laundry of Cavall manor, doing her part to help fight the viciously contagious fever. At least it was better than emptying chamber-pots and bedpans, she reminded herself wryly.

Once the cloths were laid out, Kel hefted the wooden frame and bore it upstairs to the kitchen garden where they would dry more quickly in the sun. It was there that the cook found her, and frantically – or as frantically as the calm, collected woman could be – requested her assistance in the kitchens.

"I feel bad for the poor souls, sweatin' and tossin' and turnin' in their beds," she said, small brown eyes crinkled with worry, "but Goddess bless, they're eatin' us out o' house and home!"

"I'm sure we can come up with something," Kel said, not feeling as confident as she sounded. "It's good that they keep down what they eat, instead of throwing it back up."

The cook managed a wan smile before leading the way back into the kitchen.


	12. The Winter of Our Discontent

Thank you SO much to everyone who's faving or alerting me or my stories! It's _almost _as good as getting a review ;).

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><p><strong>The Winter of Our Discontent<strong>

_Now is the winter of our discontent  
>Made glorious summer by this sun of York;<br>And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house  
>In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. –<em> Richard III

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><p>Upstairs, Kel ladled out bowls of porridge-like stew to the invalids. Two of the larger guestrooms, both boasting south-facing windows and enormous fireplaces, had been set up with cots and pallets as the makeshift infirmaries. One held the patients who were farther along in the illness, those that suffered and required more care; the other contained those who were just beginning to show signs of sniffling. So far there was only one person who had recovered, and that a miracle. The fever, very similar to the sweating sickness, usually took a week at least to run its course.<p>

Her duties done, Kel withdrew and ran into Lord Wyldon in the hallway. He gave her a wan smile at her greeting, and she paused to look at him more closely. He seemed hale enough, though his face was drawn with worry and lack of sleep; the permanent line etched between his brows looked as though someone had deepened it with a knife. Pointedly ignoring her scrutiny, he nodded towards the bowl she held.

"Our invalids have all been fed?"

"Yes sir. Some are showing signs of improvement," she added, wanting desperately to see a smile break the gloom that hung around him like a cloak.

He did smile, but not in the way she hoped for. It was a quick, bitter jerk of his lips that didn't reach his eyes. "Yes, that is often the case with this particular strain. The fever lessens and they begin to regain coherence – and then they relapse, and the Black God is paying a visit before you realize quite what's happened."

Kel chewed her lower lip briefly. "Are you all right, Wyldon?"

He stared back at her levelly, and when he spoke, his words were stone cold – they belonged to Lord Wyldon the training master, not Wyldon the district commander and friend. "This is the sickness that took Vivienne."

She winced visibly, feeling as though she had been kicked in the stomach. "Oh." _I'm sorry_ lingered tastelessly on her tongue, and she swallowed it. They were empty words, and he would not appreciate the sentiment. Lord Wyldon was not a man who desired pity.

He studied her closed face, and relented. "I'm not going to bite you, Mindelan," he told her gruffly.

"I know," she replied, surprising them both. She blushed faintly. "I'm sorry."

"Don't think on it." He took the empty bowl from her, tilting his head in the direction of the kitchens. "Walk with me?"

"Of course."

No words passed between them as they made their way to the kitchens. After the bowl had been returned, and requests for supplies made, Kel followed his lead as he meandered out into the large flower garden. It was a riot of mid-autumn color. Trees spread gold- and scarlet-stained branches to the sky, and a carpet of low-growing blossoms cradled brick walkways in their colorful arms. A tangle of late roses climbed up one wall. Looking around, Kel could see that in spite of the beauty here, it was not a very well-tended garden.

Wyldon seemed to know exactly where he wanted to go; moving with long, precise strides, he led the way through the tangle to a stone bench in the middle of the garden. Kel followed his lead and perched on the stone lip beside him, folding her hands in her lap. It was quieter out here, and peaceful, without the constant racking coughs that seemed to permeate the house. She closed her eyes, letting the calm of the crisp afternoon settle over her like a cloak.

Beside her, cotton scraped on stone as Wyldon shifted and cleared his throat. "This was Vivienne's garden."

Kel's eyes wanted to snap open, but she kept them shut. There was nothing to say, nothing she could do; so she simply waited, listening for his next words. When he did speak, it was low and slightly rough, but gained strength as he went on.

"She insisted on tending it by herself, and she did very well. Our girls would help her, before they went to convents and got married. But it went into decline gradually – when I'd returned from the border, it was little better than it is now. She liked to sit here, reading or sewing, but she didn't have the same strength or vigor needed to tend it." He drew a breath in, shakily, and let it out. When Kel let her eyelids flicker open, she could see his hands were clenched tightly over the edge of the bench, knuckles white with strain.

Carefully, not certain if it was proper for her to do so, she put one hand over his. She could feel him flinch at her touch, but when she moved to pull away, he caught her hand firmly and held it between them.

"It wasn't until the next winter we realized something was amiss. I came back from duties in Corus and found her wasting away to nothing. The healers were doing what they could, but they had little effect."

"She hadn't told you?" Kel asked, hiding her shock. His hand tightened around hers.

"She didn't want to worry me." Somehow, unfathomably, his voice was still steady. Kel wasn't sure which she feared more: his iron control, or the melting and bending of rage and sorrow. "I came back just as she was getting better. At least, we thought she was. I left again, for two weeks, to see to the relocation of a band of peaceful centaurs, and when I got back, she was gone. The servants see to it now. The garden," he clarified at her questioning noise. "I come here sometimes, to think. To clear my head." He sighed, settling back against the rough stone, still clasping her hand in his.

Kel didn't usually make a habit of holding people's hands, especially her old district commander's, but something seemed off about his grip. His callouses were still there, and she could feel a thick scar cutting its way across the thick muscle of his palm. But every joint was hard and precise against her skin, and when she looked down, she could see the rounded nub of bone at his wrist sticking out unusually far. She realized that, with all the running about she'd been doing lately, she hadn't stopped to see if he was still eating properly. A quick glance at his face reinforced the knowledge that he probably wasn't sleeping very well, either.

Kel bit her lip, debating, but kept silent. He was a grown man, and wouldn't appreciate being coddled – no matter how badly she wanted to.


	13. When Sorrows Come

When sorrows come... Neal makes it all better! I blame this chapter totally on Griff. It was SUPPOSED to be angsty until she came along... Don't forget to review, kiddies! ;)

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><p><strong>When Sorrows Come<strong>

_When sorrows come, they come not single spies  
>But in battalions.<em> – Hamlet

Kel had lost count of how many had fallen sick. Her nights were punctuated with getting up to administer throat compresses and cool cloths, her days a blur of emptying chamber pots, serving soups and hot tea, changing bedding, and exchanging letters with the capital. Duke Baird had sent healers, but still wanted frequent updates. Lord Wyldon spent his time in much the same way. At first she had been surprised by his willingness to take on the dirty work of running a makeshift hospital, but soon it faded into quiet admiration. They had more in common than she had first thought.

Things took a turn for the worse in beginning of October. She had just finished helping one of the stronger female patients use the privy when she heard a crash from around the corner. Bringing the blankets up to the girl's chin, Kel darted out of the room to find Wyldon leaning against the wall, gray-faced. The shattered remains of a ceramic pot were scattered on the floor amidst the spilt tea.

"Are you all right?" she asked, frightened beneath her Yamani mask as she stepped around the broken pottery to his side.

His lips thinned. "I'm fine. It slipped out of my hands." He pushed away from the wall and promptly fell into her arms.

"No, you're not fine," Kel replied. She held him firmly until he could get his feet back under him, gasping at the heat that emanated from his body. Whipping one hand free, she felt his forehead with the back of her hand. "Mithros, Wyldon, you're burning up. Come on, you need to lie down."

"Absolutely not," he gritted out.

Kel resisted the urge to shake him, and looked into his eyes instead. They were over-bright, and rimmed with red. "You're sick, Wyldon. Denying it will only make you sicker." She shifted so that her shoulder was under his armpit, and wrapped one arm around his waist. "Don't make me carry you. You know I can."

He protested, but his words were half-hearted. Each step was a huge strain for him, and by the time they'd reached his quarters, Kel was trembling with the effort of keeping him upright. Muscular she might be, but another knight's near-deadweight was no joke. It was with great relief that she lowered him to the bed. But her relief was short-lived. His face was drawn and pale, and his hands shook against the coverlet as though he had palsy.

"Let's get you comfortable, and then I'll fetch a healer," she said, all business. She ignored his feeble protests, too alarmed at his rapid decline to be embarrassed as she divested him of tunic, boots, and breeches. When he was tucked in to her satisfaction, Kel left the room in search of a healer.

The rest of the day passed in a whirlwind. She spoke to Duke Baird in one of the healer's mage-fires, notifying him of Lord Wyldon's condition and warning him that the Chief Healer might need to come himself if there was no improvement. She spoke with the housekeeper, officially taking over Lord Wyldon's duties as master of the house, and went through finances and supplies with his head clerk. Finally, she spoke with each and every maidservant and village woman she could, explaining the situation and thanking them for their service. If her experiences at Haven and New Hope were any indication, she knew they'd be reassured by her interest and appreciation.

She was in Wyldon's office that evening, looking over the supply lists one last time, when the door opened and Neal strode in. She only had time for a cry of delight before he crushed her to him in a hug. He was dusty and travel-stained, and damp with sweat from a hard ride, but she was too tired and happy to care.

"Father's busy at the capital right now, so he sent me ahead to see how bad things are," he told her when they broke apart. His green eyes studied her face intently. "You look worn down. You should sleep."

Kel brushed his concern aside. "I will. There's so much that needs to be done…"

"And that's why I'm here." He tweaked her nose, grinning. "Come, let me see the patients. The housekeeper tells me you have a proper hospital set up."

Kel led him obligingly through the rooms, which were getting fuller every day; he advised a third, and she gave directions for the last of the guest quarters to be converted into another infirmary. When he had seen everything and spoken with the healers on duty, he allowed Kel to lead the way to Lord Wyldon's quarters. Deirdre herself met them there, smiling despite the anxiety on her face. She had insisted on coming to the manor house when she heard of the quarantine, and Wyldon had not refused her. Now, she ushered Neal and Kel into the room with a quick bow of her head, speaking in a low voice as she did so.

"He's gone downhill steadily since afternoon, milord," she explained, lighting a fresh lamp as Neal went to the bedside. "He's been runnin' himself too hard of late."

Kel tried not to gasp aloud as the flickering light fell over Wyldon's face. He slept, albeit restlessly, for which she was grateful. Even in sleep he looked incredibly weary. A thin film of sweat gleamed on his brow and in the sunken hollows of his cheeks, and bruises rested beneath his restlessly-moving eyelids. The coverlet was pulled to his chest, but his arms, covered in the thin white cotton of his nightshirt, lay limply over the blankets; his hands were half-curled, as if he'd been clenching them before he fell asleep.

Seeing him so vulnerable and ill, Kel was suddenly struck by his mortality. Certainly, he was older than she by at least twenty years, and he was no longer in the prime of his knighthood. But as a warrior and a leader he was as strong and powerful as he'd ever been, and seeing him brought so low curdled something sour in her stomach.

As she watched, Neal sat on the edge of the bed and took one of Wyldon's wrists in his hand, checking for his pulse. Kel studied his face intently, but there was no trace of dislike or discomfiture in her friend's expression. At first she was surprised, but then she berated herself silently. _He's a grown man, a skilled knight and healer. He's doing his job. Just because he's always been at odds with Wyldon doesn't mean he wants him to die._

The thought squeezed her heart painfully, but she shoved it aside. Morbidity wasn't going to help at this point. Instead she focused on Neal, bent over their old training master, wreathed in green fire as he performed his examination.

"He's doing pretty poorly," Neal said at last, letting the green fire recede as he straightened. "But it's not as bad as some of the other poor souls you have." He shook his head. "I've done what I can for him, for now. I'll check up on him again tomorrow. Mistress…?"

"Deirdre," the woman supplied, curtseying more fully. "The healer from Highfallow."

He nodded. "Pleased to meet you. If you would monitor him through the night, that would be a big help. Father and I came up with a new spell for this, and I want to see how it will work. Kel?" Neal gripped her shoulder. "Bedtime for you, madam knight."

"But I have to find rooms for you, and make sure you're settled in – mff!" Kel's protests were cut off as Neal wrapped his arm around her head, towing her bodily from the room. Knowing he would not be swayed, she succumbed to being dragged to her bed. She was asleep when her head hit the pillow.


	14. We Happy Few

I switch POVs subtly in this a few times; hopefully it's not too jarring :).

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><p><strong>We Happy Few<strong>

_From this day to the ending of the world,  
>But we in it shall be remember'd;<br>We few, we happy few, we band of brothers._ –Henry V

Kel stood at the door of the manor house, arms wrapped tightly around her ribs in protection against the late-autumn chill, and watched Neal ride away with a heavy heart. It seemed only yesterday that he had arrived, though it had been more than two weeks. His presence had been an incredible help to her. While she made frantic arrangements to bring outside aid to bring in the harvest, sent for supplies, oversaw burials, and kept Duke Baird informed of the progress of the quarantine, Neal had seen to the sick, organizing their resources and making sure their limited supply of healers worked to their best advantage. Each evening, they met in their makeshift office in her sitting-room, going over what needed to be done. It was so comforting to be able to have him run the hospital side of things while she concentrated on running the fief.

But now he was gone, riding back to Corus at the king's request, and she was alone again.

Well, not alone, precisely. Lord Wyldon was still abed, but Neal had confirmed that the illness had passed its peak, and he was out of immediate danger. Although he was limited in what he could do to help, Wyldon insisted on doing his part from his bedchambers. Kel smiled involuntarily, remembering his gimlet eye when she expressed a concern for his health.

"I may be bedridden, Mindelan, but I am hardly at death's door," he had told her, conveniently forgetting that he _had_ been at death's door a handful of days before.

Just thinking about it gave her the shudders. Kel cast one more glance down the road to where Neal had disappeared with Magewhisper, and stepped back inside. The faded echoes of a racking cough floated down the stairs, making her grimace. She hadn't realized how welcome just a few moments of peace and quiet had been, even in the bitter cold, until they were over. Trying to shake off the gloom that descended, Kel intercepted a maid with a tray as she padded across the carpeted entryway.

"I'll take it up," she said, taking the tray with a smile. "He'll snap at you, like as not. At least I can snap back."

The maid, a lively young woman with vivid red hair, bobbed a curtsey as she gave over her burden. "My thanks, lady," she said, smiling brightly. Her good spirits were infectious; more than once Kel had silently blessed her work with the patients, who always cheered up after being tended by Merry. "He's all bark and no bite, but it's just not the same, with him abed and lookin' so pitiful."

Sending the girl on her way with a word of thanks, Kel turned and took the stairs two at a time. The sounds and smells of illness grew fainter as she moved down the opposite wing of the manor from the temporary infirmary. She passed a few servants along the way, but didn't stop to chat. They each had their own duties to see to, as did she. Coming to the door she sought, she knocked lightly before entering, closing the door softly behind her.

It was dim within, the heavy drapes blocking out the early morning light. Blinking away the gloom, Kel waited by the door until her eyes adjusted before going to the bedside.

"That had better not be more of that slop you've taken to pouring down my gullet," Wyldon told her, eyes still closed as he laid on his back beneath the coverlet.

Kel bit her lower lip hard to keep from laughing. He thought she was Merry. "No, my lord. New bread and eggs this morning."

Wyldon's eyes snapped open, and he had the grace to look abashed. "Keladry. I thought you'd be taking your breakfast with Queenscove."

"I already did," she replied, setting the tray on the bedside table and helping him to sit up against the pillows. He swatted ineffectually at her hands, grumbling that she was treating him like a newborn babe, but she ignored it with the ease of long practice. "He rode off to Corus early."

His dark eyes were sharp as they studied her face. "You miss him already."

Kel busied herself with arranging the blankets, concentrating on keeping her voice steady. "He was such a help. But he's needed at the capital, and he'll be able to confer with his father more easily this way."

When he didn't reply, she picked up the tray and set it on his lap. His hand caught hers as she pulled away. "He means a lot to you, doesn't he?"

"Neal?" She looked surprised by his question, but answered readily enough, a wry smile playing around her mouth. "Yes. Ever since he was my sponsor, we've been best friends. He says we're 'platonic life partners.'"

Wyldon barked a laugh before he could stop himself, but quickly muffled it. Busying himself with his tea, he replied, "Then I suppose I can bring myself to be civil to him, for your sake."

It was her turn to chuckle, and he took pleasure in the lighthearted sound as she settled in a chair by his bed. When he looked at her questioningly, she explained, "Neal gave specific orders that you're to eat all your given. You need to keep your strength up." She smiled wickedly. "I'm here to see that you follow orders. Besides," she added, relenting, "this is the only place I feel… happy." She shrugged, her twined fingers betraying the self-consciousness that was absent from her smooth face. "It's hard to keep up your spirits in a sick ward."

"And this is not a sick ward?" he asked, gesturing with his spoon.

Kel smiled slightly. "Not anymore, thankfully."

They were quiet for a little while as he ate, the silence punctuated with the clink of cutlery and the sounds of chewing. Kel was pleased to note that he ate everything on his plate; even better was the steadiness with which he did it. Gone was the inexorable shaking of his hands, the slightly uncoordinated movements. He was still too thin, and a sheen of sweat on his brow told her that he was exerting himself just to put food in his belly, but it was a vast improvement from a few days ago. Remembering the restless delirium and raging fever, Kel clenched her hands together tightly to keep them from trembling.

"Keladry?" He'd noticed. Of course he had. Those dark eyes were sharp as an eagle's, and they rarely missed a trick.

She met them reluctantly. "Sir?"

His mouth twitched. "If you wanted to assure me of your composure, you've already failed. You only ever call me 'sir' when you're hiding something – your emotions, usually." Setting down his spoon, he leaned back against the pillows without taking his piercing gaze from her face. "What troubles you?"

Kel shook her head slowly. "I have to keep pinching myself to see if I'm dreaming. It feels like yesterday you were so ill, and now you're eating on your own and speaking coherently."

"Coherently? Ah yes, Queenscove – Nealan – said I was delirious for a few days." The pained expression on his face when he uttered Neal's name almost made her laugh, but the furrow that appeared between his eyebrows stopped her. "How… how bad was it?"

"Bad," Kel replied, entirely frank. Then, a little more reluctantly, "You called me Vivienne."

Shock flashed across his face, followed quickly by regret. "How many times?" he asked quietly.

She chewed her lip briefly. "I lost count. Whenever I came in your room, you would look straight at me and…" She stopped, mouth twisting in a humorless smile. "Once, you asked if I – if she – had come to take you to the Realms of the Dead."

Wyldon closed his eyes and turned his face away. "I'm sorry."

"For what? You weren't yourself, Wyldon." Kel took his hand and squeezed it gently. "Please don't be upset."

He squeezed it in return, looking back at her with a faint smile. "If you order it, then I will not be. Besides, there's too much sorrow in this house already. Let us try and speak of happier things while you are here."

Kel nodded slowly. After a few false starts, they settled to talking of the successful harvest, and the good effects of Neal's spells on the patients. The conversation felt right, and comfortable, as did her hand in his; she didn't let go until she stood to leave, and when she left, she could almost imagine the pressure of his fingers still cradled in her palm.


	15. All That Glitters

Many heartfelt thanks to _Confusedknight_ for your wonderful review! This is a shorter section, but hopefully still enjoyable :P.

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><p><strong>All That Glitters<strong>

_All that glitters is not gold;  
>Often have you heard that told:<br>Many a man his life hath sold  
>But my outside to behold:<br>Gilded tombs do worms enfold. _– The Merchant of Venice

"Is that the last of them?"

"Yes sir, it is," Kel replied, shading her eyes against the bright mid-morning sun. Down the short, winding road to the village below, the final wagonload of recovering invalids were being returned to their homes. The last of the sickness had passed; the quarantine was over, and Cavall manor was empty again. It felt strange, after so long, to have none but the servants to occupy the vast network of rooms and passages, but also strangely welcome. There would be no more midnight rounds to make, no more soiled bedding to wash, no more trays to bring up, no more medicines to force down unwilling throats. In the air was the crisp taste of late autumn, cleansing everything it touched. The trees were a brilliant riot of color, the hills rolling with it like a whispering, rustling wildfire, and they filled the air with the heady scent of preparation for a long winter's sleep.

Beside her, Wyldon stood braced on steady legs, thumbs hooked into his belt and brow furrowed as he surveyed the landscape. He was completely healed, back to being the Lord of the fief, and Kel found that something fundamental had changed between this, now, and the weeks before his illness. She had seen him at his most vulnerable, and the world had not ended. He did not resent her handling of his fief, or that she had witnessed his weakest moments, when he called her by his dead wife's name. Somehow, the last vestiges of master and pupil, commander and subordinate, had dissolved completely, leaving behind two people who liked and respected one another deeply.

She liked the feeling.

He turned to her, eyes crinkling at the corners. His crow's-feet were like fine spider webs, deeply carved from use and weather, and the pink pucker of the scar at his temple did nothing to interrupt the way he smiled. She'd learned early on that he smiled with his eyes more often than his mouth, and it always drew out a slight smile of her own.

"What's so funny, milord?" she inquired, lifting her eyebrows to hide the answering fold of her lashes.

He waved a dismissive hand. "I was only considering that one of the reasons you came to my fief was to learn how to train your horse, and you've done hardly any of it. What with bandits and illness and harvest, we've had little time to devote to poor Socrates."

"He's a bit young for formal training, isn't he?"

"Not at all. It'll be another ten months until he's ready to be weaned, but he'll be a rollicking stallion before you know it, with little memory of your visits. You must spend some time each day with him, impressing yourself on his mind as mistress and lifelong companion." He crooked imperious fingers. "Come, let us see how your philosopher fares."

She trotted after him obediently, keeping a surreptitious eye on his lengthy stride. However, he didn't falter once, and she allowed herself to catch up to him as they passed into the stables. Here they air was sweet and heavy with horse-scent and hay. Dust motes floated lazily from floor to rafters in their constant journeying; breathing deeply, Kel was rewarded with several violent sneezes, one after the other.

"Mithros bless," Wyldon said immediately, raising his eyebrows. "That was quite impressive. Don't tell me you're coming down with something, too."

"I'm fine," she retorted, scrubbing her nose with the back of her sleeve. "Just dust."

They had resumed their progress down the lane, dodging the occasional hostler at his duties, when a small white form leaped out from the tack room to greet them. Jump, barking furiously, tongue lolling and tail awag, placed his paws on Wyldon's knees and proceeded to lick his hands thoroughly.

"I think he missed you," Kel observed, hiding laughter at the other knight's bewilderment. "Deirdre refused to let him in your room while you were ill, and Jump hated it."

"Well," he began, and stopped, crouching down on his haunches to run his hands over the dog's scarred hide. He seemed so surprised and touched that Kel held her tongue as the two old warriors got reacquainted.

It was almost funny, she thought, how similar they were. Jump, with his tail broken, ear torn, and various battle scars rippling beneath his fur, was the picture of an old battered foot soldier. Wyldon, with the only visible scar the one at his temple, looked more like a slightly weathered commander with little battle experience. But she was certain that beneath his fine tunic and easy gait, he had his own collection of scars. How many old wounds besides the hurrok's mementos ached in cold weather? She had a vague memory of seeing an impressive slash across his back, possibly from a Scanran battle-axe, beneath his water-soaked shirt that unbearably hot day in the stables. It was only one of many, she was certain. And yet, also like her incorrigible dog, he too continued to serve the realm with all of his considerable skill as a knight and a commander.

He stood suddenly, breaking her from her musings as he brushed his hands off on his breeches. "Come on then, Mindelan," he said cheerfully. "No more interruptions. I'll see you train this colt if it's the last thing I do."

"Yes sir," she murmured, trying not to laugh at his boyish attitude. For all his age and dignity, he seemed much younger and more carefree in this setting. Appearances, she knew, weren't everything; but it seemed especially true when applied to Wyldon of Cavall.


End file.
